ns of the dead, all the
scattered blocks of granite are mingled in mournful groupings, outlined
in fantastic silhouette against the pale copper of the sky; broken
arches, tilted domes, and rocks that rise up like tall phantoms.

Farther on, when we have left behind this region of tombs, the granites
alone litter the expanse of sand, granites to which the usury of
centuries has given the form of huge round beasts. In places they
have been thrown one upon the other and make great heaps of monsters.
Elsewhere they lie alone among the sands, as if lost in the midst of
the infinitude of some dead sea-shore. The rails and the telegraph poles
have disappeared; by the magic of twilight everything is become grand
again, beneath one of those evening skies of Egypt which, in winter,
resemble cold cupolas of metal. And now it is that you feel yourself
verily on the threshold of the profound desolations of Arabia, from
which no barrier, after all separates you. Were it not for the lack of
verisimilitude in the carriage that has brought us hither, we should
be able now to take this desert quite seriously--for in fact it has no
limits.

After travelling for about three-quarters of an hour, we see in the
distance a number of lights, which have already been kindled in
the growing darkness. They seem too bright to be those of an Arab
encampment. And our driver turning round and pointing to them says:
"Chelal!"

Chelal--that is the name of the Arab village, on the riverside, where
you take the boat for Philae. To our disgust the place is lighted by
electricity. It consists of a station, a factory with a long smoking
chimney, and a dozen or so suspicious-looking taverns, reeking of
alcohol, without which, it would seem, our European civilisation could
not implant itself in a new country.

And here we embark for Philae. A number of boats are ready: for the
tourists allured by many advertisements flock hither every winter in
docile herds. All the boats, without a single exception, are profusely
decorated with little English flags, as if for some regatta on the
Thames. There is no escape therefore from this beflagging of a foreign
holiday--and we set out with a homesick song of Nubia, which the boatmen
sing to the cadence of the oars.

The copper-coloured heaven remains so impregnated with cold light that
we still see clearly. We are amid magnificent tragic scenery on a lake
surrounded by a kind of fearful amphitheatre outlined on all s